


Truth

by yeoltidecarol



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoltidecarol/pseuds/yeoltidecarol
Summary: You meet Chanyeol at a club, and you force yourself to be honest with yourself - about your wants, your needs, and who you really could be.





	Truth

You aren’t really sure how you got here.

This is not like you.

Lie: you know exactly how you got here. With him. Pressed against your back with his hands on your hips; moving you, guiding you, easing you against his half-hard groin in time with the music. In the dark.

Clubs are not, were not, your thing. Never in your short life had you ever felt the vague inclination to spend copious amounts of money on weak drinks, sweat against a stranger who felt they were entitled to your body, entitled your wet mouth and your hot skin. None of these things ever amounted to your idea of a “top night”; none of these things ever made you smile and get wet at the prospect of meaningless, messy sex. None of these things were perfect.

Whole truth: you wanted him the minute you saw him. 

Everything about him, from his long leather-clad legs to his dark eyes, fit the type. The kind of type women dream about ,but don’t dare to taste. Too arousing, too exciting, too much, too everything that could break you - and you craved him. All of these things made your legs tremble; all of these things made your thighs clench and your tongue run along your lips to keep cool. All of these things were perfect.

Not long after he arrived did he notice you staring at him, eyeing him, needing him. Obvious. No one ever taught you how to be coy, no one ever taught you how to feign disinterest. When you wanted something, you wanted all of it, whole mouthfuls that sometimes made you dislocate pieces of yourself to fit it inside. Violent, but you liked it this way. You liked the feeling of being full, fending off famine with a swipe of your greedy tongue and the breaking of your bones.

For a while, he watched you too, delicate fingers stroking the rim of a bourbon - straight, no ice - absentmindedly. Not drinking, just watching, breathing, and thinking. About you, you supposed. About your body and its shape, how it would bend beneath his, all the forms your agile limbs could take. For a while, this was enough. Keeping him at an arm’s length made him feel safe, somehow, made him into a fantasy, a fiction you created just to feed your flushed chest and damp underwear. All you had to do was watch him, imagine him on your skin, and on your tongue. All you had to do was want him.

You were excellent at wanting, but he was best at taking.

Rising from his seat as though he were ascending into sin, languid, casual, graceful in his purpose, he kept his eyes locked on yours as he approached. Each step sent a thrill down your spine, nestling into the muscles of your lower back and making your body tense as though it could smell him getting closer. Perhaps, you could. Perhaps, your body smelled and felt him on the wind, causing your lips to part and breath to catch when he stood in front of you, finally, close enough to feel his warmth on your skin.

‘Dance with me.’

Whole truth: this isn’t like you, but you want it to be.

Now, with him behind and against you, he is molding you into someone you think you could be, someone he thinks you are. You could be this, for him, you think. Someone who presses against him and moves her hips in a slow circle, someone who glances over her shoulder to see his half-lidded eyes, and his pink tongue, lapping at his lips needy and moist for you. With his hands on your hips, you think you fit together, a mime of lust and want, and as you bring your arm up and back to sling around his neck, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, the growl he releases tells you he thinks it too.

‘Tell me what you want,’ he whispers in your ear, breath gliding down your neck, warm and inviting.

Turning in his hold, forcing his hands to cup your ass, you smirk up at him.

‘Tell me your name.’

Bringing his lips down just above yours, he pauses, lingering to tease you both with the silence and with his proximity.

‘Chanyeol.’ As he speaks, his mouth brushes against yours, and it takes all your energy not to close the distance between you, to take his bottom lip and suck it between your teeth. Make it bleed and make it bruise.

‘Chanyeol,’ you breathe, ‘I want you to take me home.’

‘Anything else?’

Whole truth: this isn’t like you, but you want it to be. You think you fit the part.

‘I want you to take me home and spread my legs, spank me until I’m begging you to fuck me. And then,’ you pause, leaning up to graze over his ear, tongue licking gently against his lobe, ‘I want you to fuck me so hard it hurts to walk.’

Chanyeol is compliant, yet dominant as he moves you towards the exit, your wrist held firmly in his hand, strong and forceful. With his long stride, you expect it to be difficult to keep up with his pace but, somehow, you remain at his side, as through he’s a magnet and you are his pole, attached to him regardless of the speed of his travel. He trusts his coat check ticket roughly at the unsuspecting man behind the counter, who cocks a dissatisfied eye at him as he turns and moves towards the back rack.

Now, without prying eyes, Chanyeol pushes you against the wall but does not put his mouth on you. Instead, he holds both your wrists above your head and presses his knee into your mound, causing you to release a high, keening whine. Looking right into you, deep down into the reaches of your very being, he keeps his eyes on you as he speaks.

‘Show me what it looks like when you beg,’ he commands, low voice gliding thick and heavy into the pores of your skin. ‘I bet you’re fucking pretty when you beg, all wet and aching to be mine.’

‘Please,’ you moan, succumbing easily to his will, ‘kiss me.’

‘You can do better than that.’

With this, he breaks from you, leaving you tingling with the afterimage of him as he leans on the desk acting cool and calm, as though nothing had happened at all. The sight of his casual nonchalance makes your eyes flutter and your back press harder into the wall. You want him on you, all over you, hard and satisfied with your words, your mouth, your cunt.

Whole truth: this was never like you, but you think it’s too easy. You think this could have been you all along, all you needed was the right hand to guide you.

Chanyeol drives a motorcycle, a Ducati Diavel Carbon that’s expensive and beautiful and sleek. It’s black and red, and matches everything about him and his spirit; the seductive curve of the single seat makes you wet with anticipation. He slides his leather driving gloves over his hands, carefully, lovingly, and flicks his eyes up to yours to catch you staring.

When he smirks, you damn near get on your knees to suck him dry. When he smirks, your knees shake and you roll your shoulders back, just enough to lift your breasts, hoping to make yourself into a meal. His meal.

‘You’re gonna have to hold on tight,’ he says, pointing out the fact that you will have to sit on the back, near the exhaust and gas tank. Fitting, you think, you feel like little more than gasoline to his match right at this moment.

You keep silent and simply nod, knowing that any words that could come from your lips would sound desperate and ruptured and weak, and you aren’t ready to let him think he’s won. Not yet, anyway.

The ride back to his apartment is short, but long enough to push you to an edge you didn’t think possible. Arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the wind delivered you an onslaught of his cologne, laundry detergent, shampoo, and deodorant, and now you are salivating for him. Each shift of the gear makes you cling to him a little tighter, feel the hard muscles of his abdomen beneath your entwined fingers, and you wished you had a proper seat to rub your body against his, if only for the briefest moments of relief. This, coupled with the vibration of the bike between your legs, by the time you reach his door, you think you could cry if he finally, actually touched you.

When he pushes through his front door, you hardly have time to think before you find yourself against the wall, hands gripping the paint as he thrusts lazily against you. Sandwiched between him and the wall, you think this is what ecstasy feels like, what bliss is supposed to be. The contrast of the cool paint against your chest and his warm body trying to get close, trying to melt into you, is stimulating right down to your core, and now you are starting to throb.

‘Do you want me?’ he rasps into your ear, taking the shell between his teeth and making you hiss with the sting.

You want to say yes. Words catch and dissolve in your throat, all your affirmations breaking from the force of his desire, and you can feel him getting impatient.

‘I’m gonna need words,’ he growls, dragging his lips down to your neck where he bites - hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to claim you as his, if only for the length of the broken blood beneath the skin.

‘Yes,’ you gasp, hands scratching at the wall for anything stable, anything to latch you to reality so you can stop feeling lightheaded and weightless. ‘I want you.’

His hands round to your front, hiking up the hem of your dress and teasing the fabric of your underwear. ‘Tell me how badly you want me.’

Chanyeol is good at this, too good at this. There’s a practiced method to the way he seems to know your body, and, normally you’d leave. Normally, you’d think him desperate and messy, a drama you don’t want to put up with, but there’s a care to his fingers that makes you stay. The pads of his fingertips are soft and careful and sweet, and this is what keeps you rooted to his floor. This is what keeps you honest.

‘I want you so bad, it’s starting to hurt.’

Repeating his earlier sentiments from the club, Chanyeol lifts one hand to your breast and squeezes. Hard. ‘You can do better.’

‘I want you so bad I’m dripping for you,’ you moan, head dropping down to press your forehead against the wall. ‘Wet and soaking for only you. Have a taste and see what you to do to me.’

Hands returning to your hips, he turns you to face him and he smiles, impishly, possessively, before latching his lips to yours. It’s messy, this kiss, all teeth and tongue and a need you didn’t know had been buried inside you. Instantly, your fingers thread through his hair, tugging and pulling to make him moan. You swallow the sound, laughing at the way it rumbles down into you, quaking in all your dark parts, and making him chuckle.

When you break apart, gasping for breath and for each other, his eyes are black and glimmering. In this moment, you think your earlier assumptions were correct - he is perfect. From his shaking upper lip, the way it begs to curl into a snarl, to the way he seems to be dripping with arousal, sweating along his hairline and making himself into a hungry, needy thing, he is perfect.

Whole truth: this was never like you, but he is exactly what you need.

Chanyeol says nothing as he walks you both into his kitchen, leaning you against his counter, he simply keeps his eyes on yours like he’s learning you. His gaze never moves but you feel him inside you, touching pieces of you that you didn’t know you had. Chanyeol is memorizing you, pulling you out into the world and into him, so that he can keep you, taste you, feel you, for always. Chanyeol is taking you, and you are letting him.

Pressing two fingers to your bottom lip, he moves his other hand beneath your dress to cup you, fingers gliding languidly along your covered slit.

‘Suck,’ he hisses, voice tight and hoarse.

Eagerly, you comply, taking both long digits all the way to the back of your throat. Hollowing your cheeks, you suck on him as though you are trying to take his blood out of from under his skin.

‘God,’ he begins, eyes fluttering momentarily in pleasure, ‘you’re such a slut with your mouth. Sucking on my fingers like they’re my dick. You’re so fucking pretty.’

As you suck, his fingers thrust idly in and out between your lips as his his other hand mimics the action against your underwear. Unable to help yourself, a moan rises from your chest and into your closed mouth, turning the sound into a garbled whimper of unbridled need. You’re becoming overwhelmed with him, overwhelmed by his taste, the leather staining the pads of his fingers, and the feel of him, full, hard, and tangible all around you. You are overwhelmed and you are pining.

Just like at the club, he pulls away from you and leaves you with nothing, this sudden contrast making you gasp for breath and pant in his absence. His pupils are blown wide as he looks at you, mouth swollen and red, blood rushing to all his most attractive, tantalizing parts.

‘Take your clothes off.’

You cock your head to the side, brow furrowed, slightly displeased you cannot see him. ‘What about you?’

‘Do as I say,’ he orders, jutting his chin forward as he eyes your clothes as though they offend him, ‘and if you’re a good girl, I’ll take mine off.’

Something about his tone moves you to action, not even the promise of seeing him naked, simply the way the sound and the melody tug at you, make you his marionette - your fingers are at the zipper of your dress before you even know you’ve moved. Chanyeol palms himself as he watches the way the fabric falls loose around your shoulders, sliding down and down and down, until the garment itself is left in a heap on the floor.

You step out before he can tell you to, gently kicking it away with your high heeled shoe. Reaching behind your back, you undo your bra, letting that too join your dress. Exposed to him like this makes all the hairs on your arms stand on end, makes your nipples hard and, your breath become labored.

Moving to step out of your shoes, Chanyeol extends and arm forward to stop you.

‘No,’ he says, firmly. ‘Leave those on.’

A wide, pleased smirk spreads itself across your face, and you keep this expression as you bend to peel your underwear from your skin. It falls to the floor with little ceremony and the only sound in the room is Chanyeol’s rattled inhale of pleasure as he sees you before him, naked, his, and firm from the way the shoes hold you.

Any other man, and you would think this degrading, not in the true sense of the word, but in the feeling. Feeling like you exist solely for his pleasure, solely as an object meant just for his gaze, something to own and crave and take. With Chanyeol, all you feel are waves of appreciation. He wants you, all of you, wants to take you, bruise you, and mark you, but only because you had given him permission. None of this had happened, none of it at all, without your permission.

And this only made you want him more.

‘Turn around and bend over, against the counter.’

You do as you’re told, bending over the counter and letting the granite top raise goosebumps along your skin. By the time he comes behind you, you’re shivering, both from the chill and from the slow drip of desire between your legs.

Glancing over your shoulder, you spread your legs, wide like you said you would, and smile.

‘Like this?’ you ask, innocently batting your eyelashes and pouting.

Cocking his head back with parted lips, he released a groan that sounds like thunder in the quiet room. ‘Yes, good girl.’

Palming your ass, he strokes the flesh gently before squeezing. Biting your lip, your eyes roll back at the sensation, but you struggle to keep them open to watch him, feel him, admire all the ways he dominates over you with ease.

‘You said you wanted to be spanked?’ His hand kneads the flesh of your ass, curving beneath it and sending a shockwave through the nerves in anticipation of the sting of his palm.

Nodding, you find your voice wavering in weakness, thick and splintered with want. ‘I want you to spank me so hard I can’t sit.’

Pressing himself behind you, he whispers into your ear with a deep laugh. ‘How many songs did it take for you to ask my name?’

The way he handles your body makes your memory feel like fog, makes the club feel like distant event, a time that didn’t belong to you - perhaps, never did. All night, you’ve felt yourself changing to match his will, and all night, you’ve felt yourself morphing into something stronger, better - beastly in the way it takes what it wants. Now, you can’t remember a time you ever wanted without taking. Now, you can’t remember why you weren’t the first to speak at all.

‘I - I don’t -’

Chanyeol’s hand lifts from your ass, raising high and shifting the air as it comes back down - hard - on the soft cheek. You yelp at the sensation, jutting forward slightly as you recoil from the force.

Grabbing your hips and tugging you back, he stabilizes you as he speaks. ‘Try to remember.’

‘I can’t - I didn’t think -’

Once more, he spanks you, this time harder than the last, magnifying the pain twofold, and you release a garbled moan at the sensation.

‘I’ll remind you then. It took nine songs. So that is how many times I’m going to spank you.’

Squeezing the curve of your ass to soothe some of the pain, he releases it just long enough to bring yet another, burning slap back to the skin, and you know the flat of his palm will leave a mark.

‘Count them!’ he commands.

With each slap, your closed eyes tighten, tears threatening to spill from the corners from both the pleasure and the pain. Each spank echoes around the room like a thunderclap, each smack from the palm of his hands leaves a red tint that you’re sure will have you struggling to sit for weeks. What began as strangled moans of numbers become full out cries, gasps of pain and screams of pleasure, hands coming to grip the edge of the counter with white knuckles. By the time you reach the number nine, your voice is little more than shards of metal, croaking and torn.

‘Fucking perfect,’ he cooes, gently stroking your cheek with soft, delicate touches.

Slowly, he reaches his hands down between your spread legs and drags a finger over your slit, collecting the wetness that has pooled and run down your thighs.

‘You’re soaking wet. So fucking good at taking a spanking, dripping and ready, and all for me.’ Adding another finger, he runs them both along your slit once more before bring them to his mouth. With your eyes still shut, you can hear him running his tongue over the digits, sighing in bliss. ‘So sweet.’

‘Please, Chanyeol,’ you moan, body feeling like a live wire, aching to be full or handled or touched in a way that could bring you release.

Ignoring your plea, Chanyeol simply runs his fingers against your slit once more and lets his low, hoarse voice run free. ‘God, my name sounds fucking perfect coming out of your mouth.’

You shake your head, squeezing the counter with more force. A painful throb has started at your center, your swollen neglected clit starting to ache and beg to be stroked. Not touching yourself, not being touched, is a divine torture - one that you no longer have the constitution for.

Voice small, you release one more plea. ‘Please.’

Taking pity on you, Chanyeol comes behind you and wraps you in his arms, running his hands down your waist. His fingers dance along your skin, relishing the softness and you sigh at the sudden gentle way he caresses your body. It’s a tease, you know. He won’t always be like this, lulling you into a false sense of security before he takes whatever you are willing to give him. The old you would love this. The current you simply likes this, and wishes he would bury himself inside you.

‘How do you want to come?’ he asks, voice sincere and soft, a removal from his natural, demanding tone. It’s about him, the way he spanked you and the way he kissed you, but how you come is about you.

‘On your cock,’ you say, voice catching as his fingers travel down and low, grazing gently over your clit. A tease, not enough pressure for you to feel satisfied, but enough for you to lean into him, beg for him even though he’s being soft.

‘How?’ he repeats, burying his face into your neck and planting a wet kiss on your tendon.

Reaching behind you to pull him close, to feel his hardness against your ass the way you could at the club, you fondle all the pieces of him you can touch as you speak. ‘From behind. And hard.’

‘God, you’re fucking perfect.’

Without him against you, you realize how truly eager he had been. Seconds pass in a daze as you hear him remove his clothing, and you refuse to look. Already you are wet and wanting, aching for him in a way you didn’t think your body new how, craving him in a way you found frightening, impossible, even inhuman. To see him, would make you dissolve. To see him, would make you shatter. You’d rather feel him, rather hear him, let your mind take you where his body wants you to go, and only after you come, only after you are spent and sweating will you look at him and let him become real once more.

The sound of the condom foil wrapping brings you back to reality, makes you spread your legs a little wider, makes you bend over a little farther. You’re bracing yourself, not against him but, against your need. It was easy to want him, and to pretend to fit his shape, but now that you know that you will, that you possibly could, you are a hurricane of lust unto yourself, making nothing but storm of love for him.

When you feel him at your entrance, you don’t have it in you to mind that he hasn’t stretched or prepared you. You think it’s fitting, in a way, that this rough claiming signifies the expansion of you will, your person, your outlook on life. You think it’s fitting, and so when he positions himself against you, tip teasing with your slit and his voice humming with eager anticipation, you simply reach for his hips and ask him to have you.

‘Just fuck me already.’

Chanyeol buries himself in you to the hilt, sending you forward onto the counter as he grips your hips and releases a long hiss. For a moment, he remains still inside you, letting you adjust and find comfort with his wide girth, and you hold onto him, the counter, your hair, everything all at once to keep yourself whole. With one thrust, he already has your knees shaking.

‘Christ, you’re fucking tight,’ he exclaims, his head dropping against your back as he struggles to keep himself motionless. ‘Who have you been fucking?’

The question is rhetorical, but you find yourself asking the same question. Who? Endless, nameless faces of men who once mattered but faded upon Chanyeol’s approach. It doesn’t matter - they don’t matter - not anymore, not now that you are transforming - a changeling created solely to match his shape.

Flushed and sweating, tears drying on your cheeks, you find strength in this new shape, and you rise, only a little, pressing your ass against him and allowing him to adjust deep inside you.

‘Move.’

‘Thank fucking Christ.’

Chanyeol sets a vicious, punishing rhythm, one that has you slapping the counter and grunting loudly with each thrust into your welcoming, pliant body.

‘Fuck, keeping moaning, baby. I want everyone to hear you.’

The sound of his voice cascading over you you, cocooning you in a rich pleasure, made your walls clench around him, tight and strong, and aggressive in their fluttering movement. His nails dig and bury in the soft flesh of your hips, and his rhythm stutters only slight before he picks up the pace, harder this time, deep and piercing , right against your g-spot.

‘God, fuck - Chanyeol, right there,’ you nearly scream, frantically grasping at any part of him you can hold. ‘Shit!’

‘You’ve got the prettiest fucking mouth,’ Chanyeol groans, relishing the way you claw and speak and reach for him, always needy, always as if you were scared you would never have him again. He senses this, senses your worry, and speaks for you. ‘Next time, I want to shove my dick between those full lips and watch you suck me until you’re gagging on my come.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ you gasp, reclining back against him to feel the beat of his heart, loud, thumping, as though trying to break free from his chest. You imagine yours sounds the same.

He pumps into you at this speed for what feels like hours to you, though you’re sure it is only minutes, but you are so far gone in pleasure you lose track. The only thing that matters is Chanyeol, the way he fills you and stretches you, reaches places inside your body you thought were mere myth. When his fingers come to your center, press against your clit and rub slow, lazy circles over the nub, it takes you several seconds to realize you’re trembling.

All night, he has been rough with you. All night, he has be dominant and powerful, a force that only you can reckon with, but when he feels you shuddering, feels the way your walls clench and unclench as he drills into you as though he were drilling his name into your bones, his voice suddenly becomes soft. Suddenly, he gives himself away.

‘Are you going to come, baby?’

This sentence, you think, should teasing, aggressive in the domineering way it asks for your pleasure, but he says it as though he simply wants you to surrender to pleasure as though you are surrendering to heaven: soft, jovial, proud.

‘Are you going to come for me, baby?’ he repeats, and this time he whispers directly into your ear. His voice walks itself down your neck and into your heart, making the coil of your orgasm bloom all over your body instead of just your throbbing pussy.

Words arrive on your tongue, half-formed and useless, so instead you simply hum in earnest, nodding against his chest as a smile spreads across your face in wait.

‘Come for me then baby. Let me feel you.’

At his command, your body tenses, clenching in rapid fire as your orgasm rips through you. In his arms, you unravel. In his arms, you find yourself whining in a way that almost sounds like you are crying or screaming, or even being reborn. Perhaps, you think, it is all three.

Chanyeol works you through your orgasm with glee, keeping his rhythm before he too spasms and stills, his own wail of pleasure tearing through the room and making your spent body twitch with an aftershock. He collapses against you, holding you tight to him and breathing into your hair.

‘You were so good. So good baby, I fucking love you.’

‘God, I’m so in love with you,’ you sigh, reaching for all of him as you smile against the counter.

Whole truth: this was never like you, not until you met him. Not until he asked you to be, three years ago.


End file.
